


A Profoundly Deleterious Effect

by hellynz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, chibs loves lore why did she have those, like sort of? those ginger humbugs man, not quite a happy ending, the doctor is acting weird and graham notices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellynz/pseuds/hellynz
Summary: 'Graham expects her to snap back, to say something about him distracting her, and he plans his rebuttal, their not-quite-tense back and forth at the edge of his tongue.When she looks up at him, her eyes are wide, and the sharpness dies behind his lips.'--The Doctor is acting happy. It should be a good thing. But it worries him.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair
Comments: 46
Kudos: 261





	1. noticing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreckageofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckageofstars/gifts).



> CAN Y'ALL BELIEEEEVVVEEE THAT WE HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH WRECKAGEOFSTARS ON THIS DAY OF OUR LORD THE THIRTEENTH DOCTOR
> 
> It's Em's birthday and it's also been almost exactly a year since we met and tbh??? fucking blessed full on 100% honored to know her can't believe she exists and writes the fic that she does and for some reason she is fond of me so here's a present ily bye
> 
> also when does this take place??? i literally don't even know

Graham keeps a close eye on the Doctor likes he keeps a close eye on all of the kids. First thing he notices that's off, more off than usual, is her grip.

She walks past him carrying a box full of something, wires and angles and metal poking out. When he asks her a question she turns, an easy smile spreading on her face, and the box flies dramatically from her grasp. It thunders to the floor with a ridiculous bravado, crashing and tumbling, spreading across the hall. Shards spread, shapes bounce across the floor. Something heavy and metal comes down square on his toe and he yelps, darting back a step.

"Oh- blimey, Doc, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he asks, pressing one hand to his chest. He expects her to snap back, to say something about him distracting her, and he plans his rebuttal, their not-quite-tense back and forth at the edge of his tongue.

When she looks up at him, her eyes are wide, and the sharpness dies behind his lips. "I'm sorry, Graham, my fingers slipped, stupid of me. Is your foot okay? I shouldn't be carrying all this around, anyway, but the TARDIS-" Her words are soft and sincere, drenched in actual guilt, and he hesitates as she begins to scramble across the floor. Of all the things she'd done lately, this was the one she felt bad for.

There were two distinct eras of his relationship with the Doctor. Of her relationship with all of them, really, the little human family she dragged along. Pre-O and post-O. Before, she hadn't been any less secretive or showy. But it had been more genuine. Her smiles had been real, her happiness genuine. He wonders if it was just his untrained eye not tuned into her yet, but he doesn't think so. Everything changed after the Master.

But there's none of her snappiness at him as she straightens with a stagger, swinging her box to rest on one hip and almost tipping herself over in the process. Her eyes aren’t sharp with barely held back irritation, her lips don’t curl into a sneer before being shuffled quickly away into neutrality. Her gaze doesn’t hurt him when it lands on his face. It is open and twisting and kind, and most of all it is sheepish.

"Really am sorry," she says, her nose wrinkling. It’s so genuine that he lets her off the hook so fast he can barely remember there was a hook to begin with. He smiles and shrugs.

"Don't worry about it, love." She grins, and it's so bright he almost can't look at it, residual happiness settling in his chest. She's in a good mood, her smile is real. He’s hopeful for her. His eyes wander down to the box again, perched precariously against her side. "Keep a better hold on that, though."

She will, she says, and she strolls off down the hall. He wonders, briefly, if he should be worried. The Doctor was wild and unpredictable, but she was not usually careless or clumsy. But he brushes it off. A slip of the wrist and what you carry hits the floor. Nothing to be bothered by.

Later she actually joins them for tea, and she's laughing and joking around with Ryan when she lifts her drink to her mouth and the mug slips from her fingers.

“Oh! My days,” Ryan starts, snatching his phone out of the way of the spreading pale brown puddle.

The Doctor stares at the spill, her lips parted in shock, and then leaps up, stumbling over to the counter. Graham feels unease curl inside him as he watches her fumble.

“You keep dropping things, Doc,” Graham says. “You sleeping okay?”

“Yes,” she says, so quick and defensive that he immediately does not believe her, returning to the table with a rag in her hand. “Just clumsy.”

But she’s not, really. She’s frantic and fast, and she does not always seem to have complete control over her limbs when she runs. But he wouldn’t call her clumsy. Her claim worms its way into the little nest of worry in his chest, makes itself at home. Clumsy, smiling, carefree. They should all be good things.

“Don’t know why you’re drinking this stuff, anyway,” Ryan says, wrinkling his nose. “Ginger tea isn’t tea at all.”

She pauses and then nods, slowly. Graham cannot read the look in her eyes. “You’ve got a point.”

She does not pour herself another cup.

—————

Later that day and they’re running, again, always running these days. They’re on some planet and the Doc swore it was a peaceful time, a beautiful place, but something started to shoot at them the minute they stepped out of sight of the TARDIS, and the rain stings as it hits Graham’s face. Really stings. As in, not just water in his eyes, but burning on his skin.

“Doc, the rain-” he starts, shouting over the sounds of the storm, and she waves a hand behind her.

“I know! Maybe this wasn’t the best time,” the Doctor calls over her shoulder, in front and hunched as she ran, hood up. “We just need to get to shelter, come on.”

There was a metal shack, standing stark against the lush scenery, and the Doctor did not hesitate before barreling inside, ushering them all in and leaning back against the closed door.

“Sorry about this, fam,” she says, breathing hard, eyes flittering about between them. She does not pause her gaze even when Graham tries to catch it, tries to gauge her mood. Whatever happiness had taken her over, whatever good mood graced them the past day was gone. Her eyes are hard. She does not let him catch her in a stare. “Didn’t realize they had a monsoon season. Also-” she trailed off, reaching one hand to rub at her neck and upper chest, the only skin really exposed to the air. “Didn’t realize the rain would be so itchy. Best we wait here till the storm passes.”

“Sounds like you didn’t realize anything at all, did you,” Yaz asked, yanking the plait out of her hair. It’s a little mean, and Graham can tell she knows it from the way she purses her lips, but she doesn’t take it back.

The Doctor makes like she’s ignoring her, but her fingers tighten themselves into fists. Her back straightens. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

Ryan groans, leaning back against the nearest wall and sliding down till he is sitting, hands on his knees. “So much for lunch. I’m starving.”

Graham opens his mouth to concur, but stops when all three are already looking at him, varying levels of amusement, agreement, and irritation. “I didn’t pack anything either,” he says finally, and Ryan groans again, letting his head thump back against the wall.

“Not that we would’ve wanted one of your sandwiches, anyway,” Yaz mutters.

“Oi!”

“I’m just saying, cheese that’s all warm from being in your pocket is absolutely rank.”

“Well, next time I won’t even offer one to you.”

“Please don’t, thanks.”

“I-”

The Doctor makes a noise of frustration, fiddling with her sonic and huffing air through her nose. “Here. I've got these," she says, pulling out a paper bag full of humbugs and traipsing to the floor next to Ryan. “Not much, but.”

"Not exactly a meal," Ryan says, but Yaz shrugs and grabs a handful.

"It's something to do," she says, popping one in her mouth. The boys follow her lead.

Graham frowns when the Doctor moves to slide it back in her pocket. "You too, Doc."

She shakes her head. "No, no, I shouldn't."

"Gotta keep your blood sugar up, don't you?" he asked. It was a genuine question; frankly, he wasn’t sure whether she had blood.

Her mouth opens and then slams closed. She looks at him for a moment too long, something off behind her eyes. And then she shrugs and smiles, tight lipped. "Good point."

“You’ve got a thing for ginger, haven’t you?” Yaz asks, and the Doctor shrugs again.

“Guess I like the flavor.”

The bag sits on the floor between them. Rain patters against the window. They're each a handful in when Graham notices how fuzzy the Doctor’s eyes have gone.

Yaz says something around a mouthful of candy that Graham does not quite catch. The Doctor, apparently, hears it perfectly. She throws her head back and laughs, louder than he’s maybe ever heard her, and Yaz grins back, leaning forward, energy bouncing between the two of them.

“You’re funny, Yaz, d’ya know that?” she says, tilting her head back against the wall, her eyes drifting shut. “I like funny friends. You know who was funny? Nardole.”

All three humans go quiet. Graham, sitting directly across from the Doctor and reaching his hand out to take another sweet, pauses. He pulls his hand back slowly.

“Not that I ever wanted to admit it in that face,” she finished, clicking the candy around in her mouth. “He was such a strange little bugger. Didn’t need any encouragement from me.”

“Who’s Nardole?” Yaz asks finally, her eyes shining even in the dimness of the room. Graham expects a tight lipped smile in response, a waved hand.

“Friend of mine!” is the answer they get, and his heart goes a bit cold, though he cannot tell why. Her mood is happy again, her face is settled into a constant half smile, and it bothers him. “Do you know, he used to say he was ‘legally allowed to kick my arse’? The cheek! Just because he was following some last wish from my- from River.”

“Who is River?” Yaz breathes, and now her eyes are so wide they could swallow the room whole.

The Doctor grins, her eyes half lidded. “She was my-” she starts, leaning to look at Yaz and then freezing, the smile dropping from her face. “Old friend,” she finishes, clearing her throat. “Nardole worked for her, and for this king, really dumb name, Hyd-hybro- Hydroflask!” she finishes with a shout, raising one finger in the air and grinning around at them. “Isn’t that a stupid name? Sounds like a brand.”

“I think that is a brand on Earth,” Ryan says.

The Doctor’s finger droops a bit before she settles it into her lap. “Might not be remembering it right. Something like that.”

It should be encouraging, it should be good to see her laugh and talk and interact. But it stands stark against her mood these days, the way she holds herself. It makes him worried. Graham might just be a human, but he trusts his gut.

"Doc?" he asks, watching as her fingers fumbled their way into the bag and pulled out another sweet.

"Hmm?" She murmurs, slumping further down the wall with a sigh as she pops it into her mouth. Her gaze flickers over to him but doesn't linger.

"Are we- is there something in the air?"

Her forehead wrinkles, and then splits into a grin and she laughs, her eyes screwing shut as her head rolls loosely on her neck. It only makes him more uneasy, worry curling in his gut. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes are on his, and they're still fuzzy, bouncing around in place like she can't quite focus on him.

"You seem a bit off," he says. She stiffens, her gaze hardening. He tries not to wince. It’s a now-familiar coldness that settles across her features, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

"Oh. Do I?" She asks, shuffling her shoulders up.

“Yeah,” he says. She waits for him to elaborate, eyebrows raising slowly higher. He does not.

“Well, no. I don’t think so, at least,” she says, suddenly sitting up and reaching into her pocket, rooting around. The paper bag of sweets tilts forward and spills on the ground, scattering. “Didn’t notice anything when we came in, can’t taste anything, think I’m usually pretty reliable, but-”

Her eyes light up and she yanks her sonic out, fanning it through the air on a shaky arm. It beeps and she turns it, staring, just inches away from her face.

But she shrugs. “Nothing.”

Ryan leans over to look at it to, and instead of shrinking away she leans too, holds it out to him as if he could possibly read it. “You are acting proper strange, mate,” he adds, glancing at her, a pinch forming in his brow.

“No I’m not,” she says, grinning and shaking her head.

“See, that’s part of it,” Ryan says, pointing at her, finger in her face. She shoves it away. Something behind her eyes is twisting, cornered. Graham doesn’t like it.

“I’m not actin’- Oh!” she gasps, and rolls forward, staggering to her feet. Graham looks around and realizes the sound of the rain has stopped.

The Doctor looks down at them, grinning. “We can head out!”

He watches her as they make their way out of the forest, and his worry only grows. She keeps stumbling, keeps yanking herself back upright and glancing over her shoulder as if to see their reactions. Her gait is unsteady, loping from one side of the path to another. When the trees part and the TARDIS comes into view she sags forward with relief, almost falls, and then darts into it.

She’s already leaning heavy on the console when they enter. “Was thinking maybe you’re all due a stop at home,” she calls over her shoulder, but her gaze is focused down at something on the console. “Today didn’t go so well, you can get some real food and I’ll pick you up again in the morning.”

Graham glances at the kids. Yaz is frowning. Ryan just looks confused.

“You kicking us out, then?” he asks, mostly so that they do not have to say it.

She shakes her head, spinning, her eyes wide. “No! Not at all, just-” the spin continues without her permission and she stumbles again, grasping at the console behind her. “Just maybe need a second.”

“Are you gonna fall over?” Yaz asks, blunt and moving forward quickly, one arm raised. The Doctor cringes away from it before she can get within five feet, ducking and stumbling around to the other side of the console, throwing a lever along the way.

“Nope! I’m fine,” she calls as the TARDIS begins to shake, twisting dials and flicking something and sending them careening. “Just- really just need a mo’, fam, I’ll pick you up in-” she cuts herself off as the ship jerks about, Graham clinging to a pillar like his life depends on it, because it might. The Doctor is almost thrown from her spot as they duck and weave, unsteady, Graham’s stomach dropping.

Finally, it stops.

“Rough landing, Doctor,” Ryan says, rising from where he’d thrown himself onto the stairs, clutching at the handrail.

“Sorry,” the Doctor says, but she isn’t looking at them. She snaps her fingers and the doors fly open. “Sheffield, same day you left, couple hours later. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

That nest of fear in Graham spreads, blooming. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She nods, forcing a smile under darkened eyes. He does not believe her for a moment. But she does not leave any room for argument. “Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Graham glances round at the others. Yaz is going to fight back, too, he can see it on her face. But then she hesitates and yanks a buzzing phone out of her pocket, rolling her eyes. “What do you want, Sonya?” she asks, already moving towards the doors with the phone pressed against her face.

Ryan looks over at Graham. He shrugs.

“No, I did not- why would I take that? I don’t even like your clothes,” Yaz was saying, and she turned back to wave at them as she left, her eyes hesitating just another moment on the Doctor.

“Off the ship, boys, I’ll see you soon,” the Doctor says finally. She isn’t swaying anymore, but Graham can see her grip, white-knuckled around the edge of the console.

He wants to argue. But he cannot come up with a real reason to. “Alright, Doc,” he says finally, and he feels Ryan deflate beside him too. “We’ll see you in the morning then. Shout if you need us.”

The TARDIS is already dematerializing by the time the doors slam shut behind them.


	2. drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally never trust me when i say something is 2 parts im such a sucker for the beats of a 3 parter

Stupid of her, so stupid, to just eat all of those candies like it was nothing. She shouldn’t have even brought them up in the first place. Squirreled away in her pocket, her dumb little secret. She’d questioned herself the moment she’d brought them up, could practically feel the way the TARDIS would have judged her. She judged herself. But they’d started fighting and she couldn’t stand it, the way it made her head ache with irritation. Spur of the moment distractions were her thing, and Ryan had been hungry, and the only food on her was-

She really hadn’t thought her tolerance had gotten that bad just because of her size this time around, her friends wouldn’t notice if she was just a bit more fun. She’d been wrong, of course, but hey. Live and learn. Eat ginger candies in front of your friends and have to fake sobriety for the drive home.

The floor is not quite pitching below her but it sways, makes her stumble into one wall, throwing an arm up to keep from falling. Despite herself she's put another humbug in her mouth and the ginger stings her tongue, softens the thudding pain in her head.

The TARDIS beeps above her, presses concerned and stern at her mind, as she tries to stand upright and doesn’t quite manage. She gives in instead, slumping heavier against the wall.

"Oh, don't be worried, love," she says, grinning up at the ceiling in a way she knows will not necessarily be comforting, but she can't help herself. “I’m just- you know.” The smile slips from her lips. She shoves up from her half collapse and staggers forward.

The kitchen is empty and quiet, without her friends. She’s almost never in here of her own accord. She doesn’t need to eat as much as humans and hates making it herself, prefers to find something roadside on whatever planet they’ve arrived on. Usually she’s only in there when the loneliness pushes too hard at her edges. When she absolutely has to go and sit in the presence of another person or she will surely lose her mind. But she has another purpose this time, dragging a chair from the table and over to the wall of cabinets. 

And there it is, sitting at the very back of the highest shelf. She wavers, the chair tilting under her, the floor bucking. Her arm shakes. But she reaches for it.

A six pack of ginger beer, the pop top metal cans that her fourth body hated but kept around for emergencies. It isn’t dusty, nothing in the TARDIS is ever dusty. But she can feel its age pulsing from it. 

Moving used to be enough. Keeping busy, ignoring, running, pushing, always fiddling with the controls, breaking things just to fix them again. It kept her mind focused, clear and quiet. Kept the nightmares away. But not anymore, not lately.

Even waking, even with her eyes wide open, all she can see is Gallifrey.

Her hand is still hovering, hesitant, and she retracts it slowly. She doesn’t feel sickly yet, the humbugs haven’t worn off and might not for awhile, but it’s not enough. She groans and rubs at her eyes, swallowing the last of her candy, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. Her head is swimming but it’s treading water, floating easily, distracted but not drowning.

The Master burned Gallifrey but it stands, it hangs over her like a ghoul, like a terrible demon in the night. A mountain lion in the trees over an unsuspecting human, and she was the human but she was also the gun in its hand.

She wants to drown. She grabs the beer.

Settling the TARDIS down is easy, even in her inhibited state. She doesn’t change the time, just hops a bit out of town. A quick, easy leap, far enough that the TARDIS doesn’t protest, close enough that she can find it without seeing entirely straight. The flight is still rough, and the landing almost knocks her to her knees. When she swings the door open and away from her, the sunset is purple and blue like a bruise, red and orange like fire. She sits down in front of it and tries not to think about kneeling. She has swallowed back a can on the way, and the second one is mostly empty in her hand.

She’s on the hill she followed Ryan to, back when they first met. When she was stranded, had no home except for Graham’s couch, swimming through her own scattered memories. She knows Grace took him here. He told her, at some point. While she was repairing something, probably, possibly in the middle of the night. He used to seek her out sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, and he’d sit near her and talk, and she wouldn’t always listen but he didn’t really seem to mind.

He hadn’t done that in awhile.

She sighs and lets her head fall to thump against the entrance to the TARDIS, the world swimming in front of her. The fire glow of the sunset fades, slowly and gradually, leaking out of the sky as the moon rises. The third can is empty in her hands and she squeezes it, tests the edges. It starts to collapse and she lets it, squeezing harder, feeling the smooth, round cyllinder crush to sharp, jagged edges. The metal splits, warping, and when she glances down she sees her knuckles are white. 

“Stupid cans,” she mutters. “Weak.”

She tosses it out of the door of the TARDIS. In the moonlight it glimmers as it bounces, stuttering down the gentle incline. She picks up another can and pops it open.

“Yaz liked me in that shack,” she mutters, glancing up at the stars, at the edge of her TARDIS poking over above her. “She thought I was funny.”

More concern, draped heavily against the edges of her. The TARDIS gathers round her and leans, smothering. Worry, worry, worry, a hint of irritation. Minds melding.

“Instead of mardy,” the Doctor says, pushing back. Creating space between them. She doesn’t lock her ship out, she never would. But she gathers the innermost bits of herself and holds them in her fist. The new can shakes in her hand and the smell as she lifts it to her face makes her want to be sick. “They don’t even like being around me anymore.”

The TARDIS groans. Pushes at her again. _Not true._

“Very true!” she says, gesturing with her free hand. “You’ve seen it. Might be awkward, I’m not stupid.” She swallows. “Ryan doesn’t even…”

Tears spring to her eyes, unbidden, hot and mutinous, and she blinks furiously. She finishes the last of her drink, to give her throat something to do other than tighten in on itself. “And Graham, have you seen the way he looks at me lately? Like he thinks I’m all fragile. I’m not fragile.”

The TARDIS laughs.

“I’m not!” she shouts, and she wants her voice to echo but it doesn’t. It spreads out over the city instead, diffusing in the air, and something hysterical in her chest wants to scream. To start yelling at the top of her lungs, let it out into the night sky. No one would hear her. It might even be a relief.

She feels a soothing touch skirt over her mind, petting. The words aren’t spoken but she can feel them, like a mother’s hand resting against the back of her skull. _Not fragile, not fragile. Drunk._

The Doctor scoffs. “I’m not even drunk. It’s not drunkenness, you know, humans get drunk but Time Lords… we just….”

She pops open another can and the TARDIS bristles. _Do not approve_ echoes dully in her mind. Her eyes are circling of their own accord, the world slipping and sliding in front of her, so she shuts them reluctantly and sighs, slipping farther down against the wall. The can is still in her hand, but she might not have the energy to drink it. Exhaustion crashes over her abruptly. It has been days since she has stopped long enough to rest. She might fall asleep right there, even though her back will ache something fierce when she wakes. But it wouldn’t be so bad, she doesn’t think. Maybe not a restful sleep, but a few hours of a blank mind. Propped up here in her ship, near Sheffield with her friends safe and happy. With the last of her energy she tosses the crumpled can out into the field to find its brother.

“Bit tacky, isn’t it?” 

She starts, sits up from where she is leaning and squints, knocking over her drink. “What…”

“Littering, I mean,” Graham says, standing a few feet away and holding her can in his hand.

She flushes. “Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this one is so short, i wasnt gonna have her pov at all and then i was gonna do just a few paragraphs of it and then suddenly this.
> 
> next part up SOON


	3. coping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated tags for a description of alcohol abuse skip if that bothers you!!

“Do you think she’s really alright?” Ryan asks. They’ve said goodbye to Yaz and have walked home, no words between them until now, the front door shut behind them and familiar scent in the air. “That was even weirder than normal, wasn’t it.”

“Not sure, son,” Graham says, sighing and tossing his keys onto the table, moving towards the kitchen. “It was strange, but I’m not sure what it was exactly. Don’t get why she was acting like that.”

“All giggly and stumbling around. She seemed drunk,” Ryan says, and Graham scoffs, reaching to take off his scarf, already planning a meal. But then he pauses.

It would be extremely out of character for the Doctor to be under some kind of influence. But, then again, she’d been very out of character for awhile now. Maybe Graham didn’t even know her character. He tightened his scarf again.

“Make yourself dinner, yeah?” he says, heading back towards the door. “I just need to go for a walk, clear my head.”

Ryan is typing on his phone and his forehead crinkles like he might argue, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he shrugs and lopes up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Graham slips out the front.

The sun is setting and there’s a chill in the air, drifting through his coat. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he goes, and he thinks about the Doctor.

The air in Sheffield is fresh. It’s early spring, and it’s cold out now but the afternoon had been warmer. Windows are starting to open, heavy coats abandoned for lighter jackets. There is newness and growth, and Graham treasures it. If his travel with the Doctor had done nothing else - which, of course, is not true, it had done many, many other things for him - then it had made him appreciate the little things about his home. Just the rush of air past his ears as he walks, human Earth air, the sound of human children laughing.

It’s not a problem that the Doctor’s mood has been a bit better, of course. At least, it hadn't been till she kicked them out. But it was the way she had shifted. Before, she had still been herself; holding back real feelings, leaving them a bit in the dust, explaining just enough so that they were left even more confused and stopped questioning if she didn’t want to talk about something. The last few days had been different. She had been loose. Normally, she kept them in a relaxed fist and kept herself in an iron cage. The past few days, all restraints had fallen. It would maybe be a good thing, once the strangeness of it wore off.

But Ryan’s comment. He scoffs to himself, feet leading him down another street that he doesn’t quite consciously choose. He is sure he would have noticed if she’d been slipping herself drinks. He pictures her, leading them around some planet like a glorified tour guide and, whenever they weren’t looking, pulling an old fashioned flask out of one of her many pocket and drinking from it. One of them would have realized. If nothing else, they would have been able to smell it.

And yet it coils, fearful and unsure, in his heart.

He wanders far without really paying attention, and finds himself up on the hill where he and Grace used to give Ryan bike riding lessons. He doesn’t end up with time to reminisce, though. Because the TARDIS stands in the middle of the field.

That same concern-unease twitches in his gut. For all the mystery that she was and everything she held back, he knows her well. It was very, very on brand for her to kick them out and then not actually leave, sulking nearby and alone. But he couldn’t for the life of him think of why.

The TARDIS is angled away from him. Like always from this angle, he can’t quite comprehend that it’s bigger on the inside. So the speed at which a can suddenly flies out of it is shocking, shouldn’t have been possible to build up in that little space. 

It’s a bit nerve wracking, sneaking up on her like this. When she had been explicitly clear she did not want them around, and was instead spending her time chucking cans down hills. But he squares his shoulders and strides forward, moving to pick up the can. When he flips it over it is just ginger beer, nothing alcoholic, and he wants to be relieved, to think that nothing is wrong and she just has weird taste in beverages.

“I’m not!” she shouts behind him, and he cringes and turns, expecting her to be furious, expecting a confrontation. But she isn’t even looking at him, even though he’s not fifteen feet away, her head tilted back and glaring at the ceiling from where she’s slumped in the door frame of the TARDIS. She says something else that he doesn’t quite catch, and she reaches beside her and pulls out another can.

His stomach twists. “Bit tacky, isn’t it?” he calls out when her eyes flutter shut, and she jolts, knocking over her drink. “Littering, I mean.”

Her face floods with shame before she careful, tactfully pulls it back in, like tightening stitches. “Oh. Hiya, Graham. Where did you come from?” She’s trying so hard, he can see it in the twist of her mouth as she straightens her back, keeping her eyes on his as if he might not notice that she’s wobbling in place.

“Just out for a walk. Saw some tosser throwing his cans all over the gaff.”

“I was gonna pick that up,” she says, glaring at him but her cheeks pink, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Just didn’t- you beat me to it.”

“You were gonna, sure,” he says, glancing down at the crushed can in his hand. “Only you look like you’re about to pass out. Have you been drinking?”

She shakes her head, as if he isn’t holding the evidence. She doesn’t look at him “Just- just contemplatin’, deciding where to bring you lot tomorrow, is all. Thinking.”

“Drinking a six pack to go with all your thinking?”

But it’s not actual beer. The smell of alcohol isn’t there. 

“There’s ginger in those humbugs we were eating,” he says, stepping past her and into the static warmth of the ship. “And you were having ginger tea, earlier.”

He lets silence hangs in the air, gives her the chance to speak up or defend herself. She does not. “Does ginger do something to you?” he asks, glancing around the ship like it might confirm for her. The lighting dims, just a little.

She’s facing away from him, and her hair hangs limp. Her shoulders rise slowly, rhythmically. He wonders, briefly, if she’s passed out. But she sighs and slumps over a little, the forced straightness of her back toppling forward.

“It…” she starts, finally, not dragging her eyes back up to him. “It has an… effect on me. On my kind.”

He takes a deep breath in, terrible dread swirling with shock and anger in his stomach. He clenches his hands into fists by his sides and kicks at one of the empty cans, startling her again. She jolts up a bit from her slump against the wall, glancing up at him.

There is so much to say. He settles on, “you’re lashed.”

A long moment passes, and he watches her mouth fall open a little before snapping shut, her eyes trying to glare without really managing to gather the malice. “I am not,” she spits out finally, and he snorts, arms crossed.

“You’re self medicating. With ginger.”

She frowns and blinks up at him, bleary-eyed and hollow. “Self-medicating is a human thing,” she says, not quite slurring but her words too close together, blending into each other. “I’m just-”

She trails off and his indignation flares. 

“You’re just what, Doctor?” he asks, and she flinches when he uses her full name. He flashes back, madly and almost with a laugh, to early days with Ryan, 16 years old and hating him. Trying to connect with a teenager, trying not to lecture but failing.

She is not a child. Far from it. But her eyes glint with rebellion as she stares at the ground in front of him. Her mouth twitches with sadness.

“I’m just coping.”

Her eyes remind him of a puppy. Sad and sorry, even when it does not quite have the capacity to be sorry and it isn’t quite sure what it should be sorry for. Different faces, different bodies, maybe thousands of years, and he’s standing here, scolding her, like he scolded Ryan for missing curfew and scaring his Nan.

The worry and the fear that have been festering in him expand and drag themselves together, morphing into an anger that takes him by surprise. He imagines them, stranded on some planet and facing down an army, and instead of protective and shouting and a little scary, she’s swaying and stumbling, her eyes unfocused, an out of place laugh on her lips. He remembers their rough landing, just a few hours prior. What would a time machine crash look like? What would a wrecked TARDIS do to the humans on board?

She hiccups and he almost laughs at her but reigns it in, pulling his indignation back into his chest an inch at a time. "This isn't coping, Doc. This is... This is putting all of us in danger. This is bloody insulting, it’s- it’s selfish."

Her eyes jerk up to his, and it would be intimidating if they weren’t so glassy, if her cheeks weren’t so red. “I- this is not-” she sputters, and he can practically see the gears in her brain twisting, trying to yank together an excuse. But they’re slowed, stiff. She can barely form a sentence as she rolls forward to stand and meet him.

Always up and over. Even plastered, she tries to rise. He tries not to let pity twist into disgust as he watches her wobble on her knees. Her hands are pressed to the floor, her head hanging so low that blonde hair dusts the floor. She hovers for a long moment. He watches her forearms tremble. And then she gives up, rolling back down onto her arse with a grunt. 

He sighs. And then he walks over and sits down next to her, sliding down the wall with a wince.

"You really overdid it, didn't you?" He asks once he is settled, hands on his knees in front of him. She groans again and one eye cracks open, red rimmed and unfocused. This close he can see the lines on her face, the dark smudges under her eyes.

"Didn't mean to," she mutters. “Didn’t mean to put you in danger, either.”

"But you did," he says, pointed. “Both of those things.”

“I-”

“Drinking all this after those candies earlier. And you drove the TARDIS drunk, with us in it.”

She is stiff, her back pressed against the wall, and her one eye is still looking at him but he cannot read it’s expression.

“How long has this been going on for, Doc?”

Both eyes open and look up and away from him. He can watch her thoughts flicker across them like pictures in a slide show; he sees her consider lying. 

She shifts and rubs one sleeve across her lips, turning to face the open air again, eyes off of him. “Not long.”

It’s enough of an answer. From the hold of her shoulders, he thinks it’s the truth.

He sighs and reaches over to take her hand, resting on the ground between them. Her fingers are very cold. He almost regrets it. She certainly seems to regret it, from the way her hand goes still as a rock, the muscles in her forearm jumping. “I’m not gonna lecture you.”

She snorts. “Good.”

“Only because I think you probably feel bad enough on your own,” he finishes. “No one’s better at making you suffer than you, Doc.”

He feels her try to stiffen up, try to protest and to pull away, but she can't quite manage it, her body collapsing against him, her face pressing into his side. She groans again and its deeper this time, thicker.

"You best shout if you're going to be sick," he says, and she huffs out a laugh.

"Won't," she says, and then he feels her wince, notices the sheen of sweat on her forehead. "Probably."

He does not respond. Instead he waits through the quiet, and he feels it when it breaks her, shifting against him and trying to pull away again, uncomfortable in the contact and the silence. 

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know,” she says finally. 

His throat catches, torn between a laugh and an angry huff. Finally, he just shrugs. “I don’t have to, but you need me to.”

She shakes her head against him, neck limp, hair tickling under his chin. “I’m not gonna be sick, really. I’ll be fine, just-”

“Not what I meant,” he says, but he helps her sit up so that she’s propped against the wall and can look at him again. “This might have been stupid and reckless, Doc, but if you think that’s the only thing I’ll take from this situation then you really don’t know how humans work at all.”

“Don’t know how anything works, really,” she mutters. Deflecting again. “Thought I was good at playing normal. Thought I was a proper actress, fooling you lot.”

“You weren’t.”

He doesn’t have to look at her to hear the pout in her voice. “Well, none of you seemed to care. Yaz liked me better. I was more fun after a few of the-”

She hiccups again, her whole body jerking, her face going so pale with indignation that he can’t help but laugh. She looks up at him, eyes sharp and mouth open to protest, and he laughs again, tossing his head back and pressing one hand to his forehead. He watches as her face shifts, through anger and past insult and settling unsteadily on amusement. Her own smile begins to form, her eyes brightening.

He shakes his head, wiping a tear from his eye. “No, it’s- it’s not funny, Doc. It’s really not.” He lets one hand rise to settle on her shoulder, ignoring the way she flinches. “It’s not funny.”

Her lips twist again and her gaze falls. “I know.”

“I’m so worried about you I could cry.”

It takes a moment for him to get an answer. While he waits, the air between them hangs sick and spicy with the smell of spilled drink. “You shouldn’t be,” she breathes.

“I bloody well should.” He raises both hands to his face and rubs at his eyes. “For God’s sake, Doc, I really- you act insufferable for weeks, you get angry with us, you won’t say what’s wrong, and then you go on a bender and kick us out halfway through. There are very few times in my life I’ve felt this worried for someone.”

“You shouldn’t,” she says again, and he has to clench the hand she isn’t holding into a fist, his nails stinging into his palm.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

She chuckles softly, and shifts so that her cheek is pressed against his shoulder again, her drink-bright eyes shining up at him. “Because it’s me,” she murmurs. “I’m not- it’s not-” And her face splits into a half smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He hears what she actually means, all tangled up in herself.

“You’re worth being a lot more than fine.”

Ginger tea in the mornings, ginger humbugs in her pocket, ginger beer on the floor.

“I had a mate named George, got caught drinking on the job. He was in dispatch, he didn’t do any driving. Still got sacked, of course,” he starts, and the moment breaks around them. She barks out a laugh, sitting up and turning to glare at him unsteadily. Her fingers tug at the hem of her jumper.

“I’m not an alcoholic, Graham.”

“I wondered how he could’ve gotten to that point,” he continued, ignoring her. “How do you go from drinking a beer every night to bringing whiskey to work in a water bottle?”

“Don’t go to work, either, not bringing anything anywhere,” she muttered, still turned towards him but the glare fallen from her face, eyes left open. Listening. 

“And so I talked to him, almost a year after he was sacked, and he said it was slow. It started with a few beers a night after dinner, then he started drinking the minute he walked through the door, then it changed from beer to hard alcohol. And then he started having a drink with lunch, and then he found he couldn’t wait that long. He needed it from the minute he woke up to the minute he passed out at night. Couldn’t cope without it.And he said it’s really hard to understand, when you’re not the one going through it. But that doesn’t make it right.”

He lets her ruminate on it. She’s not stupid, of course, but he can practically see the way her brain struggles to accept it, slowly forcing words into place until it processes.

“Thought you weren’t gonna lecture me,” she says finally, tilting her head forward so that her hair falls in front of her eyes.

“I’m not, I swear,” he says. “I just want you to consider.”

Stillness in the air again. The TARDIS might be holding its breath along with him as he waits. She never gives in and asks. But she turns a little so he can see her face again, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t make it a habit, love,” he says quietly. Pinpricks of worry burst in his chest as her face slips into a wry smile. “Because we can’t be traveling with you if you’re drunk all the time. I won’t embarrass you, but I won’t let either of the kids back on the ship, either.”

He hesitates when his breath shakes, feels the coldness in his fingertips. She is still beside him. Her mouth is frozen in an almost-smile, just barely quirked up at the edges. But her eyes are dead and flat.

“Clearly there’s something else wrong. Whatever’s bothering you that’s- driven you to this.”

She moves then, her shoulders raising, her breath huffing, but he lifts a hand between them.

“I said I wouldn’t lecture you, and I won’t. But I won’t let you risk their lives for your habit.”

The light has entirely left, and from the blue glow of the TARDIS at their backs her face looks hollowed out, sunken. “I wouldn’t risk their lives,” she breathes, her voice barely audible. 

“You already have.”

It almost makes him sick, but he stands firm. He watches her wilt and it aches in his heart, but he does not back down.

“I wouldn’t risk yours either, Doc,” he adds. “But I can’t stop what you do to yourself.”

He lets it settle heavy over them. He does not let her off the hook. He wonders if she’ll kick him out now, ban him from the ship forever. Or if she’s too pissed to manage and will have to do it in the morning, if she’s already dead to the world slumped on her side of the door frame. 

She reaches a hand up to grasp at the wall and grunts as she rises, stumbling back a step, her knees shaking. “I’m gonna go lie down,” she mutters, turning slowly and starting a halting stagger towards the console.

Graham holds his arms out like in prayer, looks up at the fully-night sky. “That’s a proper miracle right there, never thought I’d hear you say those words.”

She breathes out what might be a laugh and pauses just behind him. He can just barely see her out of the corner of his eyes, and he waits, putting is hands in his lap. He can see her face morphing as she thinks, opening her mouth and closing it again.

She doesn’t say anything. She just claps a hand on his shoulder on her second attempt, the first one almost smacking him in the face, and then she stumbles off. Graham sighs and settles back. He supposes he should go home to Ryan, make sure he’s not worried. Nearby, a bird caws into the night, and a plane passes in front of the moon. The wind through the grass sounds almost like crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endings man
> 
> unclear whether this reached the emotional resolution i was going for when i started writing it, but these idiots can't actually comfort each other it's illegal chibs said so
> 
> thank you so much for reading, i would really love to hear your thoughts, shout out to em for being born and blessing us all with her existence

**Author's Note:**

> did this need to be two chapters? not really  
> is it going to be because i can only write in the mornings and i wanna put something out before i go to work? yes
> 
> follow me on tumblr hellynz.tumblr.com
> 
> also if you haven't read em's stuff idfk how you've made it this long but go check her out


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